Loaded Page 12

  Dancing with Maria I can lose myself in the music. She is a smooth dancer, uses her hips, as if she can hear the call of the tsiftiteli in the music. To keep a rhythm with her I incorporate some belly dancing into my moves on the dance floor. She glides up to me, moving seductively around me. The other dancers are jumping around the floor, aerobic movements to the compelling beat. Maria and I ignore them. Another Madonna video is playing on the small TV monitors that decorate the club. My eyes stray to the flickering images on the screens. The song we are dancing to ends and Maria grabs my hand. Who is the boy you came in with? she asks.

  –Crystal’s boyfriend. I leave it at that. He’s cute, she tells me. We are heading back to the table.

  –You probably can have him. Maria laughs. Is he worth it? she asks. I turn around to her. She presents an innocent face to me. I don’t answer, sit at the table next to Johnny and gulp down my drink. I smell my hands. A strong odour of semen. I wipe my hands on my jeans.

  Serena is making conversation with Johnny, Maria is chatting up Con, Crystal looks uncomfortable and I watch music videos on the screen. A parade of faces pass by me, I am being checked out, assessed, been given a score. I’m doing the same thing. There is a party game Maria and I play sometimes. Drunk, we’ll scan the people in the room, Yes, No, Maybe. Yes I’d sleep with him, No, I wouldn’t sleep with her, Maybe, if I was drunk enough. Most people are Maybe. But neither she nor I am completely honest. Most people are Yes but we don’t acknowledge the truth because we don’t want to appear desperate. In a bed, with the lights out, good drugs circulating through my body, I’ll get a hard-on with anyone.

  Pubescent boys appear on the video screen, lip-synching. They look like some of the boys wandering the club. Three boys come up to Crystal and she starts squealing. A young Thai boy in bicycle pants, a blond drunk boy heaped in chains and hippie symbols, a black guy with his hair shaved wearing a see-through silk shirt. The Thai boy keeps throwing me glances. I avoid his eyes and concentrate on the screen. I’ve done too much fucking already tonight. Part of me would like to go home but I’m too wired from the drugs and all I’d do would pace the bedroom floor and watch music videos past dawn.

  Maria is talking about some party, she’s assuring Johnny that it will be still raging. I know I want to move on, go elsewhere, leave the dark insular club. I’ll come, I tell her. Crystal introduces me to the three boys. I don’t catch their names except for Rudy, the one with the see-through shirt. I ask him where he’s from and he tells me Chicago. I tell him I’d like to go there one day. He’s not very interested and I turn back to the screen. Maria tells him she has relatives in Chicago. Lots of Greeks in Chicago, aren’t there? she asks. He looks bored. Maybe, he answers, I didn’t hang out with them. I turn back to him. How come, I say aggressively, you a racist? He tenses up, his face hardens. I flash him a smile. Joke, I say. He smiles back and Crystal laughs. Rudy taps me on the shoulder and lowers his voice. I notice an erect nipple under the white silk of his shirt. A large purple nipple on a muscled chest. Crystal says you can get speed. How much do you want? I ask. He asks for a couple of grams, hands me the money and I go searching for Rat.

  Rat is necking with a guy I don’t recognise at the back of the club. I tap him on the shoulder, and we start a conversation. His pick-up for the night keeps kissing him, stroking his chest throughout the conversation. Some fucked-up blond Aussie guy; too many drugs, all he can focus on is Rat’s body. I slip Rat the money and he slips me the drugs. The bank’s closed, he tells me, you’re the last customer. Rat goes back to his fuck and gives me a thumbs-up for a farewell. I take the two packets of drugs into the toilets and scoop a small amount of the powder onto my finger and snort it. Someone is getting fucked, or getting beaten in the next cubicle. Loud banging, soft groans. At the urinal a bald guy has his dick out. I wash my face and look into the mirror. My skin is stretched taut across my bones, my hair is wet, splattered across my forehead. I comb it back into place, gargle with some water and exit the toilets. I’m looking good.

  I hand Rudy the drugs under the table. Crystal’s friends immediately depart for the toilets. They ask me along but I’m not interested. Maria and Serena follow them into the Ladies and I buy another drink. Temptation comes blaring through the speakers. My foot starts tapping and I get a speed rush. Wanna dance? I ask Johnny and Crystal, but they decline. I head off to the dance floor on my own. I’m in the middle of the crowd, swooping and shuffling to the song, raising my hands to the lights of disco Heaven. Rat and his boyfriend join me and Rat passes some amyl. Intoxicated, I dance with him while his boyfriend sways drunkenly, out of rhythm with the song, looking at himself in the full-length mirror at the back of the dance floor. When the amyl rush subsides I turn to Rat and ask where he picked him up. He’s a bit of a dickhead, I say. Rat throws me a pretend punch, lightly knocking my chin, and tells me to shut up. They’re all dickheads here, he shouts. I keep dancing till the end of the song, slap Rat’s palm farewell and head back to the table. Maria and Serena are back. The boys are still in the toilet.

  –Let’s go, I say, let’s get out of here. Johnny asks Maria if she’ll drop him off home and she agrees. Crystal wants to stay. I shake Con’s hand. A strong, masculine handshake. See you around, he says. Sure, I answer. I’m impatient to go. The bouncers open the doors for me and I’m into the night. The hot-dog stand is still there, so are the taxis. The cool night air strokes my flesh. I no longer want the night to end. Home is the last place I want to be.

  Another world is unfolding outside the club. The man at the hot-dog stall is talking about his girlfriend to one of the taxi drivers. A drunk teenage couple are walking down the street, the boy supporting his staggering girlfriend. They stop for a hot dog and the girl goes on a rave about how much she likes dancing with gay men. Australian men can’t dance, she tells the hot-dog man and his driver friend, they can’t fucking dance for shit. Poofters can dance. Her boyfriend tells her to shut up.

  I wander across the street from the club, looking into the windows of the taxi cabs. Some of the drivers are hanging out, looking desperate. They’re waiting to pick up some stray fag from the club, someone who couldn’t get a fuck. Someone who’ll suck them off down by the river. I light a cigarette and look at bored faces. They ignore me. In one cab two Greek drivers are playing cards in the front. I stand and watch them. One of them rolls down the window and asks me what the fuck do I want. Nothing, I answer and walk back to the door of the club. A police van crawls slowly past the strip. The drunk girl starts to yell abuse at them. Shut the fuck up her boyfriend hisses at her and shakes her a little. The hot-dog man, the driver, we all look away. Maria, Serena and Johnny join me on the steps. The girl starts giggling at Johnny. Honey, you’re beautiful, she jeers. Johnny gives her a dagger look. Honey, you’re a mess, he replies. Fucking faggot, she calls out and nestles under her boyfriend’s arm. We head off to Maria’s car.

  Fucking faggot rings in my ear. Faggot I don’t mind. I like the word. I like queer, I like the Greek word pousti. I hate the word gay. Hate the word homosexual. I like the word wog, can’t stand dago, ethnic or Greek-Australian. You’re either Greek or Australian, you have to make a choice. Me, I’m neither. It’s not that I can’t decide; I don’t like definitions.

  If I was black I’d call myself nigger. It’s strong, scary, loud. I like it for the same reasons I like the words cocksucker and wog. If I was Asian I’d call myself a gook, but I’d use it loudly and ferociously so it scares whitey. Use it to show whitey that it’s not all yes-sir-no-sir-we-Asians-work-hard-good-capitalists-do-anything-the-white-man-says-sir. Wog, nigger, gook. Cocksucker. Use them right, the words have guts.

  Her words, fucking faggot, they ring in my ear.

  In the car Greek music with a middle-eastern tinge is playing. Maria shakes her hips as she drives. I’m in the front, hanging my head out the window to feel the breeze. An old drunk on the steps of the Masonic Hospital waves to me. I wave back. In the back Johnny’s complaining about the
music. What’s this wog shit, Maria? he calls out. Put something else on. Maria ignores him, she turns up the volume. Johnny screeches from the back. Take off that fucking song, he yells. I keep staring out the window, ignoring the racket inside the car.

  We stop at the Seven Eleven on Punt Road and Maria and I get out to get cigarettes. As soon as we are out of the car Johnny switches off the tape. Inside the store the humming of electricity, the throbbing of the refrigerators interacts with the neurons in my head and I’m overwhelmed by the bright fluorescent lights. A bored young Indian guy serves us, not looking at us. He hands over three packets of cigarettes and we hand over the money. I look at the dry pies and sausage rolls on display, tempted to have something to eat, but my hunger tonight is all in the head. My stomach feels full and I decide against food. My lips are dry and I want another drink. No alcohol is being sold.

  Out on the street Johnny has some crap plastic commercial radio music blaring from the stereo. When we are back in the car I turn off the radio and put the tape back in. I hear Johnny snarling at me from the back but I don’t catch his words. Not that it matters. He is tired, drunk, off his face and looks like he needs some sleep. Serena tries to make conversation with him but he doesn’t reply to her questions.

  I’m glad when we reach his house. I get out, open the door for him and he takes my arm. I walk him to his front door. Lights are still on and there is a faint sound of music coming from inside the house. He groans and puts his arms around me. Ari, he croons into my ear, I hope that the old man hasn’t got some old whore in there with him.

  –You want me to come in? I ask. He shakes his head and plants a wet kiss on my mouth. You go and party, he tells me, and pinches my butt. I’ll deal with Papa. He releases me and fumbles at the lock with his key. I forgive you for tonight he tells me as he opens the door. Sure, I answer. I can’t remember if I’ve done anything to be forgiven for, can’t remember if he should be apologising to me. It doesn’t matter much. It doesn’t matter at all.

  In the dim light of the hall Johnny’s father is staring at us, drunk, in boxer shorts and a singlet. I say hello theo, and he grunts and comes and shakes my hand. He ignores his son. Where you off to? he asks me. A party. He wipes his mouth with his arm and tells me to have a good time, fuck a few sheilas for him. Sure, I reply wanting to leave, not wanting to get into a conversation with a drunk. Johnny waves goodbye to me and I walk away. Fuck a few palikaria for me, Johnny calls out. He and his father start a loud argument and I get into the car. Drive, drive away, I tell Maria and she foots the accelerator. She turns down the volume on the stereo and tells me Johnny is giving her the shits. He’s too demanding, he’s a selfish prick. We are approaching the river and the large billboard on top of the silos announces it is three thirty in the morning, it is nineteen degrees in the city. A warm night. I light a cigarette for myself, one for Maria and hand one to Serena.

  –Where’s the party? I ask. Prahran, Maria answers and takes the cigarette. Maria can tell I don’t want to talk about Johnny and changes the subject. There’s some stash in the glovebox she tells me, roll us a joint. I obey and Serena leans forward and asks how Johnny’s father copes with having a drag for a son. Maria gives a loud laugh. He’s a wog, she calls out, what would you reckon your old man would say if your brother came home in a dress?

  –My father would kill him

  –No he wouldn’t, I tell her. He’d have to learn to live with it. I start putting the joint together. My father would kill him, Serena insists, he’s Croatian.

  –In which case, Maria tells her, since he’s Croatian he’d probably fuck him first. Then he’d kill him. And then fuck him again. I laugh and drop some grass on the car floor. Serena says, oh yuck, and sits back.

  –Which is exactly what Johnny’s father did, Maria continues. My gut hardens. I don’t like Johnny’s life exposed to some stranger. Serena leans forward again. Seriously? she asks.

  –Seriously, Maria replies, ain’t that so, Ari? I don’t answer, concentrate on the joint. Wogs can’t keep their mouths shut, can’t keep their noses out of people’s business. Young, old, male, female, dumb, smart. Gossip is essential to conversation. It makes for lack of trust. I hear what Maria says about Johnny, what she exposes about his life when he’s not here, and then I wonder what she says about me when I’m not there. I keep my mouth shut.

  –That’s sick. Serena states her condemnation emphatically. I lick the gum on the tobacco paper and roll the mix into a small joint. I light it and take a deep draw.

  –It’s abuse, Maria agrees. A cop car is turning into High Street and I hide the joint under the dashboard, pass it to Maria. When the cops turn, she brings it to her lips. The dope has an immediate effect. I relax back into the seat. The song playing on the stereo is sad, melancholy. Exquisitely painful. A few times Johnny enjoyed the sex with his old man, I want to say. Instead I ask Maria about the song.

  –It’s Greek-Macedonian, she tells me, beautiful isn’t it?

  –Can you understand it? Serena asks. What’s it about? I strain to listen to the lyrics. My Greek isn’t good enough. Maria translates the lyrics.

  –A young girl is getting married and she’s really sad about having to leave her village. Oh mother, she is saying, when will I see you again? Serena laughs. It sounds more beautiful when you don’t understand the lyrics. I’m dying to leave my mother. Maria agrees. She parks in front of an old block of flats and switches off the stereo. The lament drops dead in mid-aria. In a small courtyard a group of people are sitting in a half-circle passing a bottle of alcohol around. Party still going, Maria says happily. Serena butts the joint and we get out of the car.

  I’m still tripping. The crowd of people on the lawn, their faces hidden in darkness, cast weird long shadows that move in the breeze, forming independent shapes that do not match the bodies that have spawned them. I put my arm around Maria and we walk up some concrete steps. The door to an apartment is half open and dance music is being played at a soft volume. I feel like another dance.

  The party is dying. Not dead yet, but instead of a large crowd, there are clusters of people sitting around on couches, in corners of a large white lounge room. Two guys, mid-twenties, in tight shorts and leather vests are dancing aggressively to the dance beat. I head towards the kitchen in search of drink. In the kitchen two women in black with heavy make-up are smoking a joint. A burly man is sitting on a bench sipping a can of beer. I make for the refrigerator and search for something to take my thirst away. I find nothing.

  –What are you looking for? one of the women asks me. Something to drink, I reply. It’s bring your own, she tells me, and gives me a dirty look. I ignore her and search along the bench. I find a half-full bottle of brandy, and pour a large serve into a plastic cup. The woman shakes her head at me and I put on an aggressive face. She ignores me and the man starts making some conversation with me. The acid, however, seems to be on a second peak and I have difficulty catching his words. I sit next to him on the bench and wait for the intense throbbing in my head to pass. Across from me on the wall hangs a print of a Japanese temple. I stare at it and swear I can see birds flying across the sky. The man is still talking to me and the music in the next room seems to be getting louder. A heavy monotonous rap. I hear one of the women saying, he’s really out of it. I feel the man put an arm around me and I haven’t got the energy to push him away. His arm feels heavy on my shoulder. What are you on? I hear. I can’t tell who is asking me, the man or one of the women. I take a large sip of brandy and it burns. I believe I can feel it washing through into my stomach. I look up and Maria and Serena have come into the room.

  The man takes his arm away from me and kisses Maria. He introduces her to the women. I don’t catch any names. I hear him ask if I’m alright. Maria comes over and gently caresses my face. You okay, Ari? she asks. I blink and I feel near normal. Or rather I feel more speedy than trippy. I’m fine, I tell the group in the kitchen. Let’s dance.

  –In a minute, Maria says
and takes a seat. I pour some more brandy in the glass. Are you at college, Ari? the man asks me. I shake my head.

  –Do you study? I shake my head.

  –Are you working? I shake my head. One of the women in black asks me if I’m an artist of some sort. I shake my head. Too many questions. They give up on their interrogation and go back to a conversation about books, about university. I’m bored and get up and go into the lounge room. On the couch a large, good-looking older man in a tuxedo has his arms around a young Japanese boy. The boy is playing with the man’s trouser buttons. I can’t help looking at them and the older man winks at me. He pats the space beside him on the couch and I turn away and head towards the stereo. I’m not interested in taking part in some multicultural orgy. I’m conscious that I look good, attractive, and that most of the men in the room are looking at me. So are some of the women. I like the attention. I’m strutting as I walk towards the stereo.

  No one is dancing. A pile of CDs are on the floor. I look through them. Seventies disco and eighties techno. I crouch by the stereo and look through the CDs lined up against the shelves. There are dozens and dozens of them. I’m in some rich cunt’s apartment. The matt-black stereo is new, no dust anywhere. A large television against the lounge-room wall is playing music videos with the sound turned off. I flick through the CDs, past classical music, past opera, past ballet music. Serena comes and joins me. The music has stopped and someone calls out for me to put something on. I trace the line of CDs with my finger and search for something I like. I’m having difficulty finding anything. Serena finds Abba’s Greatest Hits and wants to play it. I refuse. I refuse again. Just Knowing Me, Knowing You she asks. I relent. That’s one Abba song I can stand. We put it on and I keep searching through the CDs. Serena lies against the wall and sings along to the lyrics. She looks despondent and I leave the CDs and ask her if she’s feeling well. She doesn’t answer, continues singing the chorus and doesn’t look at me. I turn away and look around the room. Ari. I hear her call my name. I’m in love with your friend Maria.